


Walking the Longest Road

by Devilc



Category: Terminator Salvation
Genre: Character of Color, Chromatic Character, F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus, Blair, and a cold night by the campfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking the Longest Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Pr0n Battle 8](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/10575.html). Prompt: Blair Williams/Marcus Wright firelight, warmth.
> 
> One of the things I liked about Terminator Salvation is that it didn't go to the woman fucks man because he saved her life place. That, after that utterly harrowing experience, the both of them just shared bodyheat and a campfire on a cold night. (Even though lighting the fire was stupid!) I know that part of pr0n battle is to well ... but I wanted to explore why Marcus didn't and yet still have eroticism in the story. I hope it works.

It's incredibly fucking cold after the sun goes down. Not, like see your breath cold, but it somehow feels blue-black cold despite the lack of snow, and Marcus' teeth are on the edge of chattering. Blair shifts in her sleep, burrowing into his shoulder, and though she's a woman grown, something about the firelight makes her look much younger.

The flickering light takes Marcus back to his teenaged years of too many beer-blasts and bonfires on the beach, of all those girls, of getting hooked on the rush that came from a bump of crank. Of those times he woke up because the tide was lapping against his toes while a girl's body pressed warm against him. (Sometimes, more than one girl's body.)

It's been so long since he's known that feeling -- a body sleep-slack against his.

He shuts his eyes and remembers one night in particular ... a few beers, a bong load or two, so late it was early, pulling down a girl's neon-floral print bikini bottom in the firelight and just tasting her, tasting her _crazy_, before rolling down the condom and plunging into the hilt.

It's fucking frigid out here and Marcus is incredibly grateful for every stitch of clothing, what little heat comes from what's left of the fire, and the way that Blair's body slots into his inside his coat.

He remembers a bass heavy dance beat and a few lines of a song from his childhood, " ... be warm in _your_ coat/I might like you better if we slept together/I might like you better if we slept together/But something in your eyes says 'maybe'/Well, that's never/Never say never."

It's not that Marcus doesn't want to. He does. It's been _years_. And Blair's the kind of woman he liked best back then -- brassy and tough, the kind he could reach for, but never seem to hold.

But.

She didn't offer.

And maybe a part of her wants to -- from his life _before_ Marcus knows all too well the complete steel-dick/wet-between-the-legs adrenaline rush that follows an _ALMOST_.

His hand to God, he wants to have her down in the firelight, licking her nipples into stiff little peaks while he teases his fingers across those delicate, _slick_ little folds, and have her hand (or her mouth) on him, teasing back.

And.

Once upon a time, he would have played that angle, pressed her because he was a nice guy and had saved her instead of just leaving her to them.

But Mr. Nice Guy died back in 2004.

And he doesn't know how or why, but he's got a whole new lease on life, a completely fresh start.

The fire crackles and gutters. Blair mumbles and shifts again and Marcus can feel her breath on his neck and wishes it was the prelude to her latching on and necking him like a lamprey as he throbs in his pants just thinking about it.

He's not a Nice Guy.

He's That Guy.

And it's infinitely better this way.


End file.
